Life's a Satyr
by Ryskit
Summary: Neither Dean or Sam are mine. I'm still an adamant het girl. This is a prezzie for my Janice :D Dean and Sam kill a satyr, but it has a way of getting revenge even in death. It's Wincest people, there doesn't have to be much plot.


Life's a Satyr.

Dean looked over at his brother lying too still on the packed earthen floor beside him. The fight was over and the satyr was dispatched but his adrenaline flooded back through his body at the sight of Sam not moving. Not making a stupid quip about whatever it was that was dead. Not grinning over at him like the dorky little 5 year old Dean still sometimes thought of him as. Ignoring the blood of their foe smeared on his shirt, he half crawled, half scrabbled over to Sam, almost afraid to touch him and find out the worst. If anyone asked him later, he'd completely deny the tremor that shook his hand as he tentatively reached towards Sammy. And he mumbled a few choice curses aimed at no one in particular when he felt the steady beating of his brother's heart. Dean was infinitely thankful that Sam hadn't been awake to see him shaky, even if only for a minute. He exhaled and ran his hands quickly over Sam, assessing any and all damage that might have been done. The only thing his exploring hands could find, besides the copious amounts of blood that covered his brother nearly from head to toe, was a large knot on the back of his head, which would certainly explain Sam's lack of consciousness. The blood was explained by Sam's close proximity to the satyr when it died, exploding so that all that was left of it was the sticky, coppery fluid covering himself and his brother.

He explained away his less than gentle prod of his brother due to Sam being a complete lame-ass and getting his girly little butt knocked out in the first place. He received an inarticulate groan in response. Narrowing his eyes, Dean stood and used his foot to prod this time. He was rewarded with the rapid fluttering of Sammy's eyes and a pained moan. "Get up, Princess. While you were over here taking a nap, the situation just 'took care of itself'." Dean was satisfied to see irritation replace the confusion on Sam's face.

"Shuzahelup... jrk," was the mumbled response Sam made from the floor.

"Whatever, bitch. Get up, we have to get the hell out of here before the locals decide to actually pay attention to something other than their televisions." Dean reached down and grasped Sam's outstretched hand to pull him up to his feet. He held an arm unobtrusively behind Sam as he wavered a little before gaining his equilibrium. "You got a nice little goose-egg to nurse later, when we get back to the hotel. For now, how about we grab our stuff and get back to the car. I could definitely use a beer right now."

"I think I'd be happy with a couple bottles of Tylenol and an icepack." Sam replied, wincing as he prodded at the aforementioned bump.

Dean smirked. "Lucky you have hair like a girl to cover it up." He was more than satisfied with the glare he received in return. "It's called a 'Barber Shop', Sam. Guys go to it for something called 'style'. Which _I_ have in spades and _you_ are sorely lacking."

Sam glares over at him. "You just remember that fact while you're sleeping, pal."

Dean snorts and turns to the sawed-off that somehow made it into the corner, _far _away from where the actual fight had taken place. He'd barely taken two steps towards the discarded weapon before he felt his left arm grabbed and was forced into an abrupt about-turn. He opened his mouth to ask Sam what the hell he thought he was doing when it was suddenly and surprisingly covered with Sam's. Dean felt lips press against his, tasted the coppery tang of the blood still smeared on his brother's face and his wide-open eyes saw a blurry Sammy as the cause for this for two startled seconds before he pushed his brother's chest away from his. "What the _HELL_ do you think you're doing?" He wipes a hand across his mouth and glares at Sam, like this is some stupid prank he's pulling to get back at Dean somehow. What he sees is an almost feral expression on his brother's face which, if he's not mistaken, is mixed with lust. He begins to form a question/insult, when he's grabbed by Sam again and pulled against his brother.

"I need you, Dean. I need to taste you, feel you, right now." Sam tugs at Dean's arms in a desperate gesture, trying to convince Dean of this 'need'.

"Dude, I think that knock on the head did a bit more than make you sleepy, Sammy. How about we go back to the hotel and you sleep... _this_ off... whatever it is."

Sam almost growled out his reply. "I feel _fine_. I just _want_ you. Now." He clarified this remark by running his hands up Dean's arms to his shoulders, then down his chest to the waistband of his jeans, clutching there at his hips before pulling Dean against his lower body in a fast, strong tug.

Dean felt a shiver race through his whole body that he ignored in lieu of clamping his hands over Sam's wrists and trying to twist them away from himself. Warning bells were going off in his head; something he should know about, but all he could focus on was getting Sam _away_ from him until this settled out. There was already that _other_ incident involving that bitch of a succubus that they both had adamantly refused to ever acknowledge. Dean licked his lips and tasted the tang of Sam and blood, a combination that seemed to shoot tingles through his body and attempted to center on his groin. What the hell was it that he was supposed to remember? "Sam, look, we have to get the hell out of here. Right now. Locals are gonna start coming. We made a bit of a racket, in case you forgot."

The light in Sam's eyes refused to dim, he just looked at Dean out eyes that had pupils rimmed to let the barest color of blue-green rim them and nodded. He let go of Dean, turned and marched out to the car, his body all but sending off bolts of lightning to the surrounding area. Dean shook his head and refused to think of Sam at the moment. Right now, they needed to get out of there. He went to the corner to pick up the almost forgotten shotgun then strode out after Sam and headed to the drivers side of his pride and joy. Pressing his thumb to the latch under the handle, he opened the door and slid into the seat, glancing over at Sam and seeing him sitting as still as stone in the passenger side, staring at him. He tossed the gun into the backseat before sliding the key into the ignition and turning it. "What? I got something on my face? Which reminds me, we're going to have to pull off somewhere and scrub up before we go back to the hotel. I think both of us covered in gore is going to pull in some attention."

"Whatever," was all Sam muttered as he continued to stare at Dean, a strange light in his eye that unfortunately wasn't all that unfamiliar to Dean. He aimed a glare at Sam in an attempt to quell the spark, but all he got was an almost flirty smirk in response. Screw this... this was _not_ happening again. They were nowhere _near_ a succubus and therefore there was _no_ reason why Sam should be looking at him like that. He drove through the forested road until a somewhat abandoned driveway presented itself and he pulled into it so they could both clean up before having to appear at the motel in the tattered state they both were in. He cut the engine and opened the drivers door, heading for the trunk where both their bags were stored - conveniently on top of the pull-out arsenal that would _definitely_ get them arrested if found.

"Here," he grunted at Sam as he picked up and tossed Sammy's bag at him. Sam caught it and placed it on the roof before unzipping it and rifling through it, casting continued glances at Dean. Dean decided to pretend he saw nothing as he opened his own bag and randomly grabbed a clean t-shirt and button-up over-shirt. Dean felt a familiar tingle in his body again, and as there were no females present, wisely decided to ignore it. This 'tingle' had been happening since the-kiss-that-was-not-to-be-mentioned-ever-again and felt like it was getting stronger. If there _had_ been a female around, Dean was sure that he'dve had her panties off in the flash it took him to consider it. As it was, the only warm blooded person around was completely off limits, even if Sammy _did_ smell _really_ good... Dean shook his head to get off _that_ train of thought. Wrong... _so_ wrong. He grabbed the bottom of both shirts and tugged them over his head. He swore he heard Sam inhale extra loud, but with the shirts muffling the sound around him, he again, decided to ignore it. This was easier said then done as he felt a light tracing on his ribs. He quickly tugged the shirts the rest of the way off to see that Sam was standing way too close and the damn cloth in his hands wiping away the grimy residue was the reason for the almost-tickling. He jerked away out of automatic reaction, but felt some kind of lingering disappointment that he'd cut the physical connection. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?" Sam retorted almost lazily. "You said we had to be clean before we get back to the motel, right?" The hazy grin pasted on Sam's face belied the seriousness of his comment. He reached out with the cloth again and wiped a smear of dirt off Dean's stomach near the top of his jeans. "I have _no_ idea how you manage to get so much dirt under your clothes," he says with almost a resigned sigh as he swabs the spot. Dean tries _really_ hard not to press into the touch.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure I can manage cleaning myself, thank you very much. Do yourself." He flinches at the cocky grin broadening Sam's mouth. "I didn't mean like _that_... what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Absolutely nothing. I feel _great_. In fact, I've never felt so good before, except maybe for that one time in Arizona... which I'm sure you'd remember if you put your mind to it," said with a lick to the lips and eyes glued to Dean's that's making him remember _very_ clearly.

"I remember nothing happened and we decided not to ever talk about that again."

"Really? Well, I think maybe we _should_ talk about it. I think maybe we should do a bit more than talk about it." Sam says this with careful enunciation of each word as he grabs the hem of his own shirt and pulls it off, the dried satyr-blood making a sticky ripping as it seems to cling to his skin. Which is something that draws Dean's attention. And he'll swear in a court of the law on a stack full of bibles that it was the blood, not Sam's chest that kept his eyes there. He noticed how the flakes almost seemed to absorb back into Sam's flesh, darkening quickly before sinking into his brother's body.

"Sam, Sammy. Stop just a sec. Look at the blood. It's doing something to you." Which quickly makes him draw his attention to his own body to see that the previously lingering blood stains have vanished, leaving no trace. "It's doing something to _me_. Stayr's, what the hell is the info on satyr's? They can't do this... can they?" Dean rapidly spews this out as he steps back, out of reach of Sam's hand that's reaching for him, from that glint in his eye, from the need that's building in him. "Sammy, snap out of it. _THINK_ for a minute, dammit!"

"Don't want to. Want to touch you," said in an almost drugged voice as Sam keeps trailing after him and Dean isn't paying enough attention to the surrounding area, doesn't realize he's backed himself up against a wall of thickly-sprouting trees, not enough space to squeeze himself into to get away. His mind cringes even as his body presses itself traitorously against the fingers that lightly brush against his still-bare chest. He attempts to repress the shuddering breath that slides out of his lips. The need that clenches itself around him and brings him back to that time and that room and the feelings that he'd repressed. He smells Sam near him and opens the eyes he forgot he'd closed to stare at his brother with the need rising in him, only an echo of the need he somehow knew Sam had been feeling since he regained consciousness. Parts of him throb, a low hum that seems to encompass him and he leans into the touch, raising his own hand to lightly trace the burgeoning bruise on Sam's shoulder. He hears Sam suck in a breath and the _needwantdesire_ courses through him and he leans further in to place a nip on the spot he'd touched. The sucked-in breath comes out in a groan and he feels a hand cup the back of his head. He traces the spot with his tongue, tasting Sam and sweat and it fuels the need to the level where that screaming voice in his head is now muted, muffled against the feel of Sammy's other hand running up his waist and around his back to clench into a fist in the back of his jeans. The tightening material makes him realize that his lower body is slightly confined in it's denim prison, pulsing against his own flesh to remind him he needs. He raises his head and looks at eyes he's seen a million times before, but only directed at him like this once before. The flush on Sam's face makes him drag his own eyes down the other man's body to see his brother in a similar situation with his own extremities.

Trying once more at a feeble attempt at sanity he looks at Sam straight in the eye. "We can't do this... again. We shouldn't, Sammy. It's just as wrong this time as it was that other time." Even though his lips form the words, his hands run across Sam's chest and around his back to lower and cup his ass. Sam keeps his gaze on Dean and runs one hand down Dean's chest while sucking on his own lower lip.

"Maybe so, Dean. But it being wrong doesn't keep it from feeling any less right." With that remark, he hooks his finger into the front of Dean's jeans and traces under the material. Dean's eyes flutter and he tightens his hold on Sam's ass, pulling him closer against him, almost grinding in the need to _touchfeelhave_. And sanity flies out the window. He raises one hand to grasp the back of his brother's head, clenching his fingers into thick hair and tugging it down to his and pressing his lips against Sam's. The rasp of his zipper being lowered is lost amidst the feel of silk flesh against his and the velvet tongue teasing his into following it. The smell filling his mind is again of Sam, sweat, _home_. That safety he only has when with his brother. That knowledge of acceptance, no matter what. All the girls in all the towns, including Cassie, had never given him that. He nips at Sam's tongue, soothing it with the lathe of his own and suckling it into his mouth. He's rewarded with a thrust of hips against his and the feel of fingers under denim gone slack. He pulses into the hand that wraps itself around him and quickly moves his own hands to undo the button of Sammy's pants. The metal and material seem to elude him and he tugs angrily at it until the offending snippet of metal pops off and makes the sliding down of the zipper so much easier. He slip his hands under the waistband of the boxerbriefs they both prefer and slides them around to dig stubby nails into Sam's ass. "Uhn... off. Pants off now," followed by Sam's hands unwrapping themselves and pushing Dean's pants and underwear down, almost urgently.

"Wait... wait a sec, Sam. Shoes. Pants don't come off when shoes are in the way." Dean's marginally impressed that he can remember this vital piece of information while the desire to cover Sam's entire body with his tongue is crawling through him like a screaming wraith. He shuffles away from the scratchy bark-covered wall he'd been pressed against and rests his ass on his car while he bends over and undoes his boots. He looks up to see Sam following suit hurriedly, toeing his shoes off and wriggling out of his pants faster than most girls. He smirks at the idea and finishes shucking off his own clothes, then looks up at Sam's face and his mouth goes moist. The half-moon shining through the light filter of leaves paints Sam in a silver glow, outlining and shadowing him in ways that did nothing but compliment him. The hours of physical labor their job demanded had left next to no fat on him. The planes of his chest gleam in the pale light and drew the eye further down. He's not gay. He's never been interested in the male body. He was more than happy with the assortment that the female variety came in. But Sam is a _damn_ fine specimen of the male version. He leans against his car and just stares at Sam for a minute before his brain processes that Sam's moving. Coming towards him. And his own body pulses in response. He pushes himself off the vehicle and meets Sam a few feet away, both males grasping for each other. Sam's hands find their way down his body, one tracing the scar on his thigh and the other brushing the back of itself against Dean's groin. He retaliates by reaching one arm around Sam's back to curl around his shoulder and using the other to firmly grasp Sam's cock. It's slightly different from holding his own, but similar enough that he starts the sliding motion almost out of habit. His brother hisses in his ear and dips his head to tongue Dean's neck, alternating between licking and nibbling gently at the bend of his shoulder. His hand skips dryly on Sam and he releases long enough to raise his hand and add saliva as lubrication to his palm before lowering it and continuing. The teeth sinking less than gently into his neck tells him more than words can.

Still, Sam raises his mouth long enough for a quick, "God yes, touch me..." before returning to its previous exploration of the spots-of-Dean it can reach. Dean can feel his own dick pulsing against the press of Sam's stomach and his belly. His brother's hands are less than gentle as they run up and down his back, pressing him against his chest as he slips his oh-so-agile tongue up Dean's neck to his ear, nibbling at that spot where the ear meets the neck that has Dean sucking in a breath and squeezing his hand around Sam, which elicits a muted groan against the side of his head. Sam's short nails still manage to make red furrows on Dean's back as he scrapes them down, moving his hands over Dean's hips and lifting his head back enough to let Dean watch him as he licks his palm, generously covering it in saliva before lowering it to emulate what his brother is doing. Both of them are lost in the steady slide and slick of the motion, ragged breathing filling the night. Sam raises his head from Dean's shoulder and levers a heavy-lidded stare at him. "Like last time, Dean. I want... God I want you so bad I can taste it."

Dean tries not to just throw Sammy down and take him, instead moving back towards the car, pulling Sam with him in a way he can't argue with. When they reach the car, he lifts his mouth to Sam's and presses a kiss to his lips, letting him know in a way he knows he never can in any other circumstances how much he means to him. He knows his message is received and returned by the way Sammy stops his hands from their endeavor to cup his face and lengthen the kiss, sliding his tongue over his brother's lips and tracing his teeth with it. The soft touch of fingers lightly rubbing his cheek twists something inside Dean, makes him want to draw this moment out as long as he can. He opens his mouth wider and tangles his tongue around Sam's, tasting him, exploring him, remembering and memorizing him. He breaks the kiss and still looking in Sam's eyes, walks slowly around him, Sammy's eyes tracking him and making him twist his head around to watch him over his shoulder. "Lean over Sam. We'll make it better than last time." He sees the lust flood over Sam's face as he turns his head to the front and leans forward to brace his upper body against the cooling hood of the Impala. Dean presses himself against Sammy, sliding his cock between Sam's legs and feeling the friction of the coarse hairs before it rubs against the almost-satin feel of Sam's dick. He reaches a hand around and grasps Sam, alternately squeezing and sliding until Sam has no choice but to thrust himself into Dean's palm almost unconsciously. Sam's breath coming out in heavy pants as he tries to press his legs together to grasp his brother's dick knocking against him. Dean sucks his lower lip in and bites it to keep the groan from slipping out and decides no time's better than the present. Dean slides his forefinger in his mouth and covers it generously in spit before lowering it to Sam's ass and rubbing it gently over the sphincter. Sam stills and his body quivers in what Dean hopes is anticipation. Sam looks back over his shoulder, "Now. I want you now."

As much as Dean would like to fulfill that request, and his throbbing cock is attribute to that, he'd rather not hurt his brother anymore than foreplay requires. So he ignores Sam and takes his time slipping his digit in and out of the ass that's eagerly presenting itself to him. He can feel the muscles loosening, not as tense to his intruding finger as it was at the start, so he removes it and slides two of them into his mouth, the tang of Sam heavy on his palette. He slowly works them both in torturing himself with the need to sink more than fingers into the tight, warm hole he's plying. Sam's starting to arch his back and thrust back against him so he raises his hand yet again and moistens the third finger. Again, he slowly presses them in and is pleased when the whimper out of Sammy's mouth is accompanied by another thrust backwards. He rotates his wrist and with his encompassed digits finds the spot that _all_ men have but the straight ones refuse to acknowledge (unless they're a little more open minded than most) and presses over it before turning his wrist back. Sam lets out a whine, twisting around to look at Dean with eyes that convey _fucknowyes_ and Dean decides he's right. He removes his hand and raises it to his mouth one more time, spitting the mouthful he's kept into his palm and lowering it to coat his needy pulse. He steps forward again, nestling himself in between Sam's legs and presses his dick against his ass. The head seems to stick, then nudges itself slowly into the tight opening, made less-so by his ministrations. He holds his breath at the feel of muscles clamping over the more sensitive parts of him, then continues to press inwards. Sam's arms buckle and he leans his chest against the car, whimpering in a way that Dean can only take as consent, as his mind is already gone on the _tighthotgodshit_ that's closing over him. He keeps pushing in until his body is flush against Sammy's and he stays there for a minute to let them both adjust to this... _godgoodyes_ that's flooding them. Sam inches forward slightly, then shoves back. "God... God don't do that, Sammy. I'm trying here."

"Don't try, just _do_." And with that, Dean's good intentions go out the window. He draws himself almost completely out, then quickly shoves back in. Sam pushes himself up on his arms and cries out, pressing his ass as close to Dean as he can. Dean repeats the thrust and soon all you can hear is the muted sound of flesh on flesh and groans and gasps emitting from bitten lips. He clenches his hand into the meat of Sam's hips hard enough that there'll be bruises there later and he doesn't care. Sam's keening in a high pitched whine that's driving Dean to fuck harder, faster and Sammy's twitching around him in a way that's making his rhythm stutter. He bends over Sam's back and reaches his hand around to grab Sam's cock and stroke it in synchronization with his body. He can feel his brother's legs quaking and presses him harder against the metal hood, spreading Sam's legs wider as he thrusts against him. His hand is rough on Sam's cock as he pulls and slides him closer to orgasm, his own building up at the base of his spine and sending jolts through him.

"Shit... shit... Sam. God, I'm gonna go." Hot breath covers Sam's back as Dean breaths raggedly against him. "How close..." is all he gets out before his hand is covered in hot wet and he tightens his grip and slides to the base, holding him there while he pushes himself in and out of Sam a few more times, sinking teeth into Sammy's back as the jolts solidify into a blinding orgasm that rips him into shreds and has him making obscene noises that are matched by the ones his brother's making as he they both finish. Dean's hand falls from Sam's still-twitching body and he lays limply over him like a human blanket, too worn out to bother with the consideration of moving. They both lay there, hearts hammering and breath coming in short gasps as they try to regain brain function. Dean moves enough to slide himself out of Sam, which elicits a groan from both boys. He rolls over to his back on the hood of the car and just lays there, trying very hard to find any surviving brain cells. He turns his head to look at Sam who seems to have dissolved into a pile of moosh on his car. "You are _so_ cleaning up your own damn mess."

"What if I said the same for you," came the quip.

"Good point." Dean was frowning up at the still-starry sky now as the recovered brain cells told him something wasn't quite right. "Aww shit, Sam. What the hell was that?"

"Umm.. succubus?" Very feeble reply.

"Did dad's book say anything about satyr blood?"

"That would be a 'no'."

"Alright. So side-note on satyr's are to wear hazmat suits when killing their asses."

"Yep. Sounds good to me."

"Sam?"

He heard a deep breath sucked in, then, "Yeah?"

"This never happened."  
He heard it let out again in what could only be relief. "Right. Never happened. Now, important question."  
Dean tensed. "Yeah?"

"Where are my damn pants?"

End.


End file.
